Haircut
by Queen Edmund Pevensie
Summary: Season Seven. While working on their Leviathan problem, Dean notices something about Sammy's hair.


**A/N: Takes place during season seven. Probably some time before 7x10, but it could be after. **  
**I don't actually care.  
**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.  
**

**Haircut**

For reasons I couldn't quite understand, Sam had always kept his hair long. His whole life. Even when me or Dad (and probably _Jessica_ once or twice) forced him to get a haircut, or when his bangs got so long even _he _couldn't stand it anymore, he only eve got it trimmed so he could manage it. Honestly, I think he's the only hunter I've ever met with hair that long.

Since I'd pulled Sam back into hunting, though, he's been more than just physically attached to his hair (and I don't know why, and I will let it be) or too busy thinking about something else to get his hair cut until _I_ decided his hair needed to be cut. _Now. _ And even with the haircuts every few months, if we could, Sam's hair has gotten long.

I think the only time Sam voluntarily made an effort to get his hair cut was when he was walking around without his soul. Soulless Sam was meticulous about freaking everything, so his hair was still long, but it was well kept. When I was in Hell, I'm pretty sure the last thing on Sam's mind was cutting his hair.

I cut his hair right after Sam had been re-souled. After he woke up, and he was _good, _and we fought dragons, I decided that if that wall Death put up fell down , I'd like him to have his hair cut before it was too late. _I _did it, just in case it sped up demolition.

I cut it again a few days before Cas launched project God and demolished the wall. I was glad I did, too, because there was no telling if I could get that close to Sam's face with scissors anytime soon now that Hell was spilling loose.

I hate that we have the ability to use that expression so frequently and literally.

But we were couple months post demolition and into "I see Lucifer in the bathroom, but I'm perfectly okay, Dean." I was sort of at the blow-my-brains-out point of frustration with the Leviathans and trying to decode what they were up to, so I just sort of decided to _not_ for about a half hour, and I ended up watching Sam. Not in the, "you're frigging nuts, are you going to have a complete breakdown?" kind of way, because I've realized that Sam Winchester is the only person more stubborn than John Winchester, and if Sam decided he was going to prove me absolutely wrong, than he will be fine for the rest of his freaking life.

Sam went around and acted like he had everything under control twenty-four/seven. And okay, most people we met wouldn't know anything was wrong, because on a good day, Sam had sixteen to twenty hours of "under control," and on an okay day he had five to fourteen hours, and anything less than five hours just got classified as "bad day," and we knew it would be a bad day, because we'd take everything a couple hours at a time. We tried not to work on a bad day, because I didn't really want Sam near anything or anyone but me on those days, and Sam didn't want it either. To his everlasting credit, though, Sam had mostly "good," and "okay" days, if we're going by hours of control alone. But it's not like I was going to push my luck and stick sharp objects in his face when I didn't have to.

I was looking at Sam though, thinking how he hadn't had a haircut since May and how it was almost December, and hair like Sam's really needed a good trim at least every two months.

Sam saw me looking. "Dean," he snapped. "Are you even helping?" When Sammy is irritated with me for _any _reason, you know it's probably a good day, so I just sort of smirked back at him, I mean, it's not like Sam doesn't _argue _on bad days. Sam's been arguing since before he could talk. I'm fairly certain he came out of the womb arguing. Sam just doesn't get annoyed with me when he has a bad day. It was the different between his big brother who was trying to fix everything, and his big brother who _could_ fix everything.

"Dean, come on, this is important," he reminded me. Like I didn't know it was important. But really, it was only the end of the world.

Not like I _wanted_ the world to end, but lately, the world has seemed quite intent on doing just that. Repeatedly, in dozens of gruesome ways, and it was really getting to the point of being laughable. Almost. If we weren't all going to die because of it.

So I just kept staring at Sam, deciding he really,_ really_ needed a haircut.

"What?" he asked finally.

"You need a haircut, Sammy," I told him. If I was being completely honest with myself, I didn't think giving him a haircut would be a big deal. _Maybe_, it might bring up some less than ideal Hell-Memories, on the off-chance that Sam was having a bad hour (which were classified by Sam by the type and the cruelty of whatever was gnawing at his brain). I definitely didn't think talking about a haircut would have any effect on him on a really good day.

He did frown at me, but that was just the regular Sammy reaction to anything he didn't understand, or something he didn't quite want to do (like a haircut), or a combination of both. "Okay," he said, and he went back to lecturing me about I don't even remember what. '

"Tomorrow," I told him. "You're getting your haircut tomorrow."

He sighed. "Come on, Dean," he said, and he sounded genuinely frustrated, but I was listening. At least RoboSam kept that mop under control. Sammy couldn't though, with trying to control Leviathans and _regular_ monsters on top of the Devil. I don't think a day goes by I'm not thankful I have _Sammy_ back.

"I'm serious, Sam," I said, leaving no room for argument. "Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Of course he had, though, because he still shaved every morning.

"Have _you?" _he joked, but I saw his face fall a little. I didn't call him out on it, mostly because Sam had always been reluctant to get his haircut. He sighed again. "Yeah, fine, whatever," Sam agreed. He turned back to his research, but he didn't lecture me about it again, which I took as a bad sign.

"You all right?" I asked.

"Yeah," he grunted. Sam sighed _again_, and looked at me awkwardly. "Uh, Dean…?" he started.

"Yeah?"

"Just, you know," he tried again. "You'll, you know…?"

"Yeah, Sammy," I confirmed. "I'm cutting your hair, don't worry." Like I was going to let anyone else near Sam's face with sharp objects of any kind. For their safety, as well as his.

I _really_ hoped today was a good day filled with good hours. I mean, I _always_ hoped it was a good day, for Sammy's sake, but if I didn't do something about that hair soon, Sam might spare some time to get frustrated with it always in his face and _rip_ it out.

Not likely, but I mean, I wanted him to have a haircut the same way I wanted Sam to wear clothes that fit him rather than hand-me-downs from me that were a little too big as a kid.

At least today seemed like a good day. He woke up and was alert in almost record time after a nearly completely restful six hours of sleep (which was more sleep than _I_ got), and I didn't even remind him until after I was sure today looked like a really good day.

He even smiled gratefully when I reminded him.

It went smoothly at first. Smoother than any of the other countless times I've ever cut his hair. He didn't squirm or bitch (primary reason Dad or I always cut his hair), but he wasn't nervous or anything.

Trust me, I know when Sam's nervous.

He was calm or talking, or calmly chatting until I was almost done.

I was _almost done_ when he cut out in the middle of his sentence and his eyes fixed on something in the corner of the room, but he pressed on his scar and he shook his head.

"Don't shake your head, Sammy," I told him. "I'm working here. I could've taken an eye out."

"Oh," he said. "Sorry." He sounded nervous. Well, crap.

"Don't apologize," I muttered.

"Sorry." I couldn't tell if he was just being a smart-ass.

I decided to hurry up anyway. "Almost done," I promised. He nodded (in all fairness, I told Sam not to _shake_ his head, and since he was having a bad spot, and he was _pre-law, _he either didn't realize the result was the same, or thought he could get away with it –I wasn't placing any bets on the second one though), and I didn't miss the way he clenched his hands.

Obviously though, Sam did not like having scissors so close to his face. He pressed on his hand a little harder this time and he was getting kind of…nervous.

"Hey, Dean?" he asked_ nervously._ "Could you, uh, hurry up? _Please?"_

"Hang in there, Sammy," I urged. "I promise I'm almost done. I won't actually take your eye out, I promise."

"_Dean," _he protested. Vague imagery unnecessary and making it harder to hang on, and oh God, _please_ hurry up.

"Done," I said, throwing the scissors on the table. I wasn't actually. His bangs needed a trim, but even if I pulled them away from his face, I didn't know how much longer I could keep him from panicking. Maybe another day. Like tomorrow. "You still with me?"

"Yeah," he answered, rubbing his thumb over his hand rhythmically. "I think so." He looked around him, and saw his hair on the ground. "My hair," he mumbled.

"All done," I promised.

"I –" Sam reached up to make sure that wasn't _all_ of his hair on the ground. "Oh." He took a deep breath. "Did you… You cut my hair," he said, transitioning from a question to a statement mid-sentence.

"All done," I repeated.

"Thanks."

I started to sweep up his hair from the floor around him, and he stood up.

"I can –" Sam said, reaching out for the broom.

"It's fine, Sam," I insisted. "I think we lost you for a second, Sammy."

"Yeah," he agreed. Sam was still rubbing his left hand, but it as more of just a nervous habit, now that any threat to his yes, or hair, was out of the way. Just hard enough to keep him grounded.

"You good?" I pressed.

"I'm good," Sam promised and he searched for his research, and resumed telling me all about it. Maybe it was the haircut, but this time, I listened.


End file.
